Something to Write Home About
by Marek Kane
Summary: Sharing the highlights of her life, and having the inspiration for her letters close by. (GSR)


**Title:** Something to Write Home About

**Summary:** Sharing the highlights of her life, and having the inspiration for her letters close by. (GSR)

**Disclaimer: **I'm just borrowing the characters for my own personal amusement.

**A/N:** Thanks to Catharina, who likes to make me write once in a while.

* * *

Her therapist had suggested to her when she was a child that writing could be therapeutic, and though she'd never been particularly artistic, she'd gotten into the habit of writing letters. Not a journal as the doctor had wanted, but letters home instead. She could remember being eight years old and hearing the phrase "something to write home about," which became the theme of her later letters. 

She'd had many things to be proud of and write about, such as her college graduation, the job offers immediately after finishing school, moving to Las Vegas. Her pen stopped momentarily as she pondered over the last one. The Vegas letters so far had been filled with both good and bad things, and though it was a rather spontaneous move it was one she didn't regret often. No matter what the topic, they'd gone into the letter box anyway, along with silly little momentos, such as her plane ticket to Las Vegas and a little shard of glass that had been removed from her hand after the lab explosion. Perhaps an odd keepsake, but that had been the first time he'd ever called her honey. A word that, no matter how fuzzy the events of that shift remained, she distinctly remembered him saying.

That original letter had been a mess of Tylenol 3-aided recollections and thoughts, and had been a challenge the day after to decipher. She'd rewritten it properly though, and both copies had gone into the box. She smirked to herself when flipping over the slightly worn pages and noting how many, both happy and sad, involved him somehow. Almost as if on queue a small sigh emanated from her sofa, where a figure lay curled up under her soft navy blue fleece blanket. She wondered if the small table light she had on was too much or if the rustling paper was too loud, but he seemed to be out of it.

A migraine had brought Grissom to her door three hours after shift, looking like hell. She'd told him that too, for subtlety had never been Sara's forte. One of the drawbacks of working graveyard was the plethora of activity that took place while they slept, and as Grissom had grumbled, it's just not possible to halt road workers during the day. And so she'd offered her couch and a nicely quiet and darkened room. He'd passed out almost immediately, four hours ago.

She often wondered what she'd do with Grissom here. Of course, in her day dreams he'd not had a migraine, but she definitely didn't mind watching him sleep. It was slightly voyeuristic, but as she reread over some of her letters she found herself glancing towards him, seemingly trying to find justification for his decisions and actions.

But he didn't offer any, and instead continued to sleep rather fitfully, his face showing the signs of the medicine wearing off. She rose to plug in the kettle and set out two mugs. If they were anything like the migraines she got, the caffeine from a hot tea would help. As the kettle warmed up she glanced over the pages she had written after the near DUI, her theories of why he acted towards her the way he did. Those were the longest letters, because as soon as she'd figured out the motivation behind one action, he'd do something to throw the theory out the window. She still couldn't figure him out, but seeing as he was semiconscious on her couch, she didn't really care. He was stirring, but she went about the tea preparation quietly anyway. She poured herself some and left the rest in the tea pot, returning to her letters.

A blank sheet was pulled out and she wrote the date on it, while out of the corner of her eye she noticed him sitting up groggily on the sofa. The pen danced across the page as his eyes focused on the room. _Gil Grissom fell asleep on my couch,_ she started, smiling softly to herself. There were many things she'd like to write, but seeing as Grissom was still there she'd rather wait to see how things panned out.

He noticed her writing, and the small smile that crept out from the corner of her mouth. He missed her small little smiles; they used to come more frequently before.

"Who are you writing to?" Grissom asked, startling Sara out of her concentration.

"Hmm?" She hummed, looking up at him, wondering how she could explain... "I'm..uh, writing a letter home."

Grissom only nodded, seemingly figuring out that it was not just as simple as it sounded. He noticed the box and the stack of slightly worn pages, concluding correctly that she wrote "home" often, but never actually sent the letters.

"Sort of a way to connect yourself with your past? Or like a validation, to show how far you've come?"

"I don't know why, Grissom," Sara replied rather lightly, with just a touch of small annoyance. Why did people always insist upon looking for a reason behind everything? "I just have plenty to write home about."

Grissom nodded in thought, standing a little cautiously. "And it doesn't make you sad, or a little homesick?" he asked softly, not wanting to push Sara too far. He knew it wasn't the most comfortable topic to talk about.

"How can I feel homesick," Sara replied, after thinking about her answer and rising to pour him a mug of tea, "for a home I've never had?"

The end.


End file.
